


You Could Have Told Me

by nothingislittle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, Post Reichenbach, Reunion dinner, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingislittle/pseuds/nothingislittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Three years, Sherlock. THREE YEARS of nightmares, and intermittent tremors, and that bloody cane and that inane therapist prattling on and on about post-traumatic stress disorder and a thousand sessions of grief counseling but none of it, nothing, not one thing could stop the memory of you falling from St. Bart's roof replaying over and over and over every single time I close my eyes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Could Have Told Me

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little of what I think seeing Sherlock again would be like from John's perspective.

When I see him again, I don't know what to do. Clearly he's real, because he's speaking to the hostess and she's answering back. She points at my table and Sherlock starts over.

_He's not dead._

How am I supposed to assimilate that information? I always thought, imagined, if he wasn't truly dead, what it would be like. How I would feel — how the empty hole inside me would fill again. Be he's here, now, real — and I'm just ... empty, because ...

Because?

He's in front of me now, and he has the audacity to smirk, as if I should be impressed that he pulled this off, and maybe I would have been had he deigned to include me in his scheme. And that's when I realize why I'm still so empty. It's because,

"You could have told me."

"Hello, John," Sherlock intones.

His deep voice goes through me like a shot and the air is suddenly vacuumed from my lungs and I can think of nothing to say. Sherlock continues, unflappable as ever.

"Surprise!" He says with a whimsical flourish, smirking again. His flippancy is enough to bring both my breath and my wits back to me.

"Surprise?" I say, my words laced with venom.

I thought I would be happy to see him, but I'm just not. My anger is apparent enough in my tone and my face that Sherlock falters, his cool mask slipping for just a moment, his brow furrowing, just so, indicating not only his surprise at my anger but his inability to comprehend that he's done anything at all to deserve it.

"You could have told me." It's all I can say.

His know-it-all expression is back in place, ready to impart some great wisdom — a face I so keenly remember detesting and enjoying in equal measure.

"Well, no, John, actually I couldn't have done and there are rather a few points as to why, which I would be pleased to explain over our meal, if I could just join you for din—"

"No."

"Wh— ... what?"

"Oh, Sherlock Holmes, taken by surprise, isn't that a lovely sight?" I can't help my bitter tone. He looks genuinely confused by my outrage — but after all this time, after days and months and years, I've no patience for Sherlock acting like Sherlock.

"You. Could. Have. Told. Me." I carefully enunciate.

"No, John, really, I couldn't, I—"

"Bullshit." I realize suddenly that I've stood up so quickly I've kicked my chair over behind me.

"John," Sherlock steps toward me, hand outstretched, as you would to calm a nervous dog. "Calm down."

Stepping forward, I knock his hand out of the way with my left, rear back and land a right hook on his stupid, gaping mouth. He hits the ground hard, touching his lip and pulling his gloved fingers back to examine the blood there. I stand over him, sick and bloody tired of that confused look, because it seems ridiculously impossible that the Great Sherlock Homes can't deduce the fact that he's broken my heart.

"Three years, Sherlock. THREE YEARS of nightmares, and intermittent tremors, and that bloody cane and that inane therapist prattling on and on about post-traumatic stress disorder and a thousand sessions of grief counseling but none of it, nothing, not one thing could stop the memory of you falling from St. Bart's roof replaying over and over and over every single time I close my eyes."

Sherlock looks up from his undignified spot on the floor and blinks, stupidly. He stands, graceful as ever, and steps closer. By now the entire restaurant is watching us and over Sherlock's shoulder I can see the the maitre d on the phone, babbling rapidly to someone — Scotland Yard, probably. Good, let Lestrade come down here and see the late consulting detective, alive and well, and see if he doesn't feel like throwing a few punches himself.

"John, really, there's a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why I couldn't tell you. Please, let me—"

"I don't frankly care, Sherlock." I drop some money on the table to cover my drinks. " _You_. YOU could have found a way to tell me."

I start to leave and am surprised when he actually has the nerve to grab my arm to try to stop me.

"John, I didn't think—"

"Well wouldn't that be the first and only time in history that Sherlock Holmes didn't think? After all this time, and all this pain, you saunter back in here as if I'm supposed to be amazed by the way you've kept yourself hidden for three whole years — and all you can say is you didn't think? Think what? Think I would care, that I would notice? That I would be hurt? _That I would miss you_? No, of course not, Sherlock Holmes wouldn't remember to take sentiment into account." I spit. Finally, Sherlock looks a bit sheepish — a bit guilty, and he let's go of my arm.

"John, I'm ... I'm sorry."

I'm still empty.

"I don't care."

Sherlock's face — I can't place it. I can't tell why it's so familiar. Then I realize it's like looking into a mirror: because he looks broken.

I walk out of the restaurant without looking back, not even when he calls my name and his voice breaks.


End file.
